“Hey, right. No blame on us. Is that’s all? What about the army? As I remember, they have about a hundred and fifty thousand troops. Which side did they take?”
“Actually, they have a hundred and forty-three thousand men under arms. About two-thirds have stayed loyal to the new government and Sanchez. Mostly because Sanchez doubled their salary and paid them for two months in advance. The other third are centered in southern Colombia near the coast where the former President Manuel Ocampo has set up what he calls the real government of Colombia. Say he has about forty-eight thousand troops and half of the jet fighters and ten or twelve tanks.”
“They have a navy?”
“Not much of one. Two submarines, four corvettes, and about thirty-five coastal and river armed patrol craft. We don’t know where any of them are, but some should be in Buenaventura on the Pacific side. We expect most of the fleet is on the Caribbean Sea side. This is a two-ocean nation.”
“How long do we have?”
“We’re making contacts now with the former president to clear the way for your landing by sea with tons of supplies, ammo, and various other goodies. Probably we can get it all arranged within a week.”
“We got your twenty-mike-mike rounds and like them. We’ll want those and three more over-and-under Bull Pups before we go and two thousand rounds.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good enough. We’ll go back to Spanish classes. Ed is in good shape and will be going with us. How will we travel?”
“You’ll go by air southeast from San Diego. Bogotá is almost directly due south of the D.C. parkway. We’ll have a carrier task force in the vicinity. It will be your floating base, and it will steam within twenty miles of your entry point.
“I’ll download what we have on the two big cartels. You still at SEALsSeven@AOL.com?”
“Right, that gets us here in my office. Works great.”
“You’ll hear. The cartels are named after two large cities where they live: Cali, in the south, and Medellin, about in the middle of the country. Bogotá, the capital, is farther east in the mountains. Lots of mountains in Colombia.”
“Okay, bwana. We’ll be ready when you give us the word. Keep in touch.”
Murdock hung up the phone and looked at the scrawled notes he had taken as Stroh talked.
“Get everyone together out there, Senior Chief, and I’ll tell you all I just heard about our next assignment.”
He went through it all. Murdock had always felt that the more the men knew about an assignment, the better. When he finished, the SEALs had some questions, then put away their equipment and headed out. All of them lived off the base.
Senior Chief Dobler tarried behind until everyone had left but Murdock. He went to the office door and knocked.
“Senior Chief?”
“Commander, do you have a few minutes? I’ve got a problem.”
6
The whole scene irritated him. He’d been in worse, but this armpit section of Miami was right out of a horror movie. Deserted buildings, empty wine bottles rolling on the street in the sudden gusts of angry wind. Newspapers flying. Tough Tony Mitrango ducked his head and motioned to the man with him.
“That goddamned door is the one on the address. No lights. Where the hell is everyone?”
His partner, the one carrying the sleek suitcase filled with one hundred dollar bills, shrugged. “Hail, Tony, we’ve worked with these gents before. Good old boys from Colombia. No sweat, man. They ain’t about to fuck us. We got clout with them now.” Angelo Puchini snorted. He’d been on a dozen buys like this. Why should the family pay some middleman just to haul the goods from Miami to New York? The family did it and saved 30 percent.
Tony touched the door, turned the knob, and it opened. He thrust it inward and saw a dim light. He had his hand hovering over his belt where his old reliable Glock with seventeen rounds remained hidden.
He stepped halfway into the room and stopped.
“Ah, gentlemen. Good you have arrived.”
Tony squinted. He saw a shape across the room. The sound of English with a stiff Spanish accent reminded him these were foreigners, assholes from Colombia. But they had the goods.
“There are supposed to be two of you.” The same Spanish tilted words came sharply.
Puchini stepped into the room. The lights came up, and the two Mafia men saw two dark-complexioned men standing beside a small table. Both wore expensive suits, colored shirts with loud ties, and shirt-matching handkerchiefs in the jacket top pockets.
“Yeah, we’re here,” Puchini said. “Where the hell are the goods?”
“No rush, plenty of time. First we be sure you are who said would come. Then we see the money, and then we show you the goods and make the exchange. Good for business. Good partners, yes?”
Puchini wanted out of there. He wanted to make the exchange and get back to the car where he had two more soldiers. The Colombians said no more than two men on the exchange. The car was three blocks away, where two more Colombians waited with the Mafia car.
“Let’s get on with it,” Tony said.
“Yes. First we must go to another room. Please follow me, gentlemen.”
Tony realized that the second foreigner had not spoken. Probably knew no English. Damn fucking Spanish assholes.
“This way,” the Colombian said. He went first through a door into a normally lit room, then through that and up a stairway with no lights at all except at the top.
On the second floor, the four men stood in a bare room except for one table, a sturdy type, four feet wide and over six feet long.
The Colombian frowned. “You have firearms?”
“Damn right,” Tony said. “Don’t even get out of bed without my shooter.”
“Suggest we all lay weapons on the table,” the Colombian said. “Then no one tempted, all even-Steven.”
“Hell no,” Tony snapped.
“Easy, Tony,” Puchini said softly so the others couldn’t hear. “We put the pieces down and wait. Don’t blow this. These guys are touchy sometimes. We never have any trouble.”
Four automatic pistols soon lay on the table.
“What’s your name?” Puchini asked the talker.
“Yes, confirmation. I am Pablo Ernesto. Yes, two first names. What name do you use?”
“Puchini is enough. I have the cash. Where are the goods?”
Puchini lifted the briefcase to the table and laid it down.
Pablo and his friend lifted a suitcase from the shadows and placed it carefully on the table. He unstrapped it and lifted the lid.
Puchini couldn’t see inside.
“Come take a look, test it, one hundred percent.”
Puchini made a small move with his head for Tony to stay near the money, then walked slowly toward the suitcase. He watched the man beside the cocaine.
The second man shot Puchini in the heart before he made it halfway to the suitcase. The silent Colombian jolted his weapon toward Tony, but he dove under the table, clawing at his right ankle for his hideout. He shot three times at the men’s legs, had one hit above the knee on the first shooter before the man dove to the left and fired four times, drilling a line of lead slugs down Toni’s right arm and across both legs.
The Glock fell from the Mafioso’s hand, and he wailed in pain.
The two Colombians jabbered at one another a moment, then the one who spoke English bent and aimed his weapon at Tony.
“So, you do not want the goods. Fine with us. Your friend has made himself dead. We will take the money and slip away before anyone comes, no?”
“Bastards. Puchini said he trusted you shitheads. Why do you do this now? We have the money for the goods.”